full circle
by anonymous kristin
Summary: When she turns around to meet the frowning face so close to her own,she pretends that his eyes are an intense forrest green instead of dull brown, filled with longing instead of hurt,commming closer instead of getting farther away.


Hi guys! This is my first Glee fic, so be nice. I don't usually do this angst stuff, but this popped into my head. Here it goes!

* * *

"Come with me," she says, taking his big hand in her smaller one, her tanned skin girly-soft on his. She leads him onto the street, her bare feet gliding along the hot asphalt as her dark legs carry farther and father up the road.

He smiles at the picture they're creating: her tiny frame slowly dragging his hulking one up the way, leading him God knows where.

They don't say a thing, he knows not to. People may think he's dim, but he can be a little intuitive. And he knows that she's not herself. He's used to her commanding… everything… but this is different. Her demands are usually firm, and accompanied with a string of long and complicated words that he rarely understands. Today, she is still firm, but also quiet, withdrawn. She's been this way for a while, ever since he came back from football camp. But now it's elevated to a sadness he can't quite put his finger on.

But that's impossible. Even if she was depressed, she would never let him see it. She was too strong for that. Not to mention the fact that she was an actress: trained to hide and fake emotions at the drop of a hat. He has yet to see her in any stage of vulnerability, let alone despair. If she hadn't shown him her softer side then, why start now?

And besides, she had just told him how she had everything she wanted, and how happy she was before he left for the camp. And when he arrived home yesterday, she met him at the airport and had told him how glad she was to see him (those had been tears of _joy_, right?)

They're there now, though he doesn't really know where. A pristine field of saturated green, swaying grass, enclosed in a clean, classing white picket fence. The sun must be setting behind the clouds by now, though all they can see is the vast blue-grey expanse that's hiding the pinks and yellows usually painted by the sunset, broken only by a line of tall silhouetted trees on the horizon. The late august haze hangs like a tangible fog over the meadow.

She lets go of his hand now, letting it lightly slip away, sauntering slowly, lazily to the fence, gracefully climbing over it as if she did all the time.

He follows suit, landing in the damp grass with an awkward _thud_. The blades ripple around him in rings from where he now stands. He watches her wander around in small circles, as if looking for a familiar spot, a place she's sat before, an indent where her body once lay. The grass comes up to her sun-kissed knees, tickling them and sending a wave of Goosebumps up her body (Goosebumps is seemed he could never cause).

In his mind, he wonders if she comes her all the time, if this is her secret spot, if he's the first person she's ever brought here. He'd like to be the first person she's ever brought here.

She leans back, lowering herself completely into the meadow, lost in the mesmerizing sway of the grass, as one wisps past her check, brushing away a silent tear.

He's losing her to her thoughts, he thinks, and settles into his own, leaving only the buzzing of the cicadas and chirping of frogs for their soundtrack.

She _has_ been here before, it _is_ her secret place, but despite his wishes, this boy whose fingertips are lazily stroking her forearm is _not_ the first person she's ever brought to see it.

This boy is not the first boy to brush the hair out of her face when the soft summer breeze tousles it.

He is not the first to softly nip her lower lip with his teeth, asking for entrance into her mouth during a quiet kiss.

He is not the first to meet her tongue with his.

And he is not the first to place his large, baby-soft hand on her inner thy, slowing, steadily inching it upward until he grazes the hem of her white shorts, feeling the silky, private skin near her most imitate place.

He is, however, the first boy that she stops.

She moves his hand away from her leg. She doesn't want him to touch there. She doesn't want him to touch her _where he touched her. _

With that revelation, she begins to cry.

She cries for herself, confused and conflicted, torn between two paths. Two men who offer two completely different things to her (and the one she wants is not the one who is holding her).

She cries for this boy, so misguided, who grasps her so tightly in his arms (the _wrong_ arms) and whose lips place a chaste kiss on her hair, so heartbreakingly gentle that she lets out an audible sigh.

And she cries for the boy she wishes was kissing her so lovingly, the boy that she can still see as she left him that fateful day: his head in his rough, masculine hands, broken.

She whispers for him, calling his name, wiling him here. "Noah…" She feels the arms around her tense first, and then loosen. "Oh, Noah…"

When she turns around to meet the frowning face so close to her own, she pretends that his eyes are an intense forest green instead of a dull brown; filled with longing instead of hurt; coming closer instead of moving farther away.

Then she's by herself, a chill hitting her in all the places Finn's body once covered, and more alone than ever before. She lies there by herself for a while, letting the tears roll down her cheeks (only now there's no one to wipe them away).

"Noah…" she whispers in desperation. "Noah."

* * *

When it happens, she's so far gone that she almost can't feel him. It's dark, and her ears are filled with the sounds of summer nights and not the soft shuffle of the familiar pair of Chucks padding across the grass.

He lies down beside her, securing his arm firmly across her stomach, his mouth on her neck, the other hand stroking her hair like Finn had hours ago. Only this was different. He covered all of her, it seemed, immediately enveloping her in warmth, so different from what she had felt before.

These were the calloused hands she dreamt of, the arms that she longed to have wrapped around her, and the fierce green orbs she imagined peering into. She rolls over onto her side. "You heard me."

His breath sends Goosebumps up her arms, as he massages her back with practiced hands. "I didn't have to."

She turns to meet him, brown eyes pooling with tears as she whispers "I'm so sorry." He kisses her urgently, fervently, hard. Her lips parted into a smile laced with pain, the sensation she felt in his arms too much to bear.

He _was_ the first to see her special place.

He _was_ the first to close his eyes and kiss her until she couldn't feel anything anymore.

He _was_ the first to brush his hand over the velvety skin of her stomach, and below.

He _was_ the first to really love her.

He was the first and the last.

* * *

What'd ya think? Love it? Hate it. Reviews are love (or, if you think about it, Noah Puckerman).


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